


These Days Of Dust

by l_cloudy



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cursed Emma, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-31 00:31:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3957724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/l_cloudy/pseuds/l_cloudy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there's no memory postion, only a True Love's kiss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Days Of Dust

**Author's Note:**

> Set post season 3A (assuming the Zelena thing didn't go down for a few more months) in an AU where Killian can't count on the potion to jog Emma's memories.  
> Title from Mumford and Sons' (my go-to CS artist, in case it wasn't clear!) [_I Will Wait_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rGKfrgqWcv0).

> _Well, I came home_  
>  _Like a stone_  
>  _And I fell heavy into your arms_  
>  _These days of dust_  
>  _Which we've known_  
>  _Will blow away with this new sun_

Emma met Killian Jones about ten minutes after breaking up with her boyfriend and, had she been anyone else, she might have called it fate - but she was just plain old Emma Swan, bail bondsperson, single mom and former juvenile offender, and way too jaded to believe in anything but the harsh reality.

The weird thing about dating somebody, Emma had read once somewhere, is that you are either going to marry that person, or break up. She couldn't remember exactly where the quote was from – it must have been some fortune cookie, or a chocolate box, or something equally cheesy and stereotypical – but she'd always found it… threatening, somehow. Like, no pressure, girl, all your relationships are doomed before they start. Enjoy your stupid chocolate.

Unfortunately it seemed like Walsh had read the same stupid quote, the idiot – and he decided to make a spectacle of it, the way he'd gone about it, that very public proposal in the crowded restaurant with the smirking waiter and everyone's eyes on them. Nope, no pressure. As if he'd never known her at all – and how could she ever want to tie herself to someone who'd never understood her in the first place?

No forever and always, for Emma Swan. No happily ever after; nothing at all.

And that was how Emma had found herself walking home alone at ten on a Tuesday night, wanting nothing more than to take off that stupid dress and have a long, hot bath and –

running and stumbling as the elevator's doors closed, and swearing under her breath as she collided with… someone. An amused chuckle, a hard chest, strong arms wrapped around her, steadying her and – Emma felt something inside her tighten – the blues pair of eyes she'd ever seen. "Sorry," she heard herself say and, hell, was she blushing? She couldn't remember the last time she'd blushed. "Bad day. Very bad day."

And that was how Emma Swan met Killian Jones for the first time – only it wasn't the first time, not by a long shot.

They didn't talk much that first night; in fact, she didn't even give him her name.

He didn't say anything at first, only looked at her – and his whole face seemed to light up, a soft smile on his lips, and Emma found herself smiling back, because how could she not? It seemed to go on forever, their... whatever it was, she encased in his arms and he staring at her as if she were the most precious thing in the world; and it felt so good, it was wonderful.

And then the elevator's doors shut with a whiz behind her, and Emma remembered that she was, in fact, locked in a sort of hug with a complete stranger – a complete, gorgeous stranger – and she'd just broken up with Walsh, and she really, really needed that hot bath now.

"Right," she cleared her throat. "I think… you can let me go, now."

He winced and took a step back like she'd burned him, and when he held out one hand for her to shake Emma noticed that he was wearing leather gloves that went so nicely with his leather jacket, and yet there was something so intrinsically wrong about his clothes – about him - but she had no idea what it was.

And so she took his hand – Killian Jones, he'd said, and shook it with a smile that said thanks, but no thanks, and she only answered. "Nice to meet you. I'm seventh floor, so if you don't mind…"

He'd frowned and paused and pressed the button with the same comical accuracy a child would use, and Emma had to turn away to physically bring herself to stop staring, because she had enough men problems to deal with already – and it was only when the door opened again and Emma heard his footsteps following hers that she met his eyes again.

"Just moved next door, love," Jones told her, and winked and –

bad, bad news.

Henry pouted about Walsh and how he'd have been good for you like only a teenager could – only he wasn't a teenager yet, just an annoyingly precocious kid; and Walsh himself called her not sounding heartbroken at all, only weirdly concerned about her moving away from New York for some reason – and completely disappearing from the face of the Earth once Emma had assured him for the hundredth time that no, she had no intention to move, and why would he think that anyway?

He hung up and never called back, and when she showed up at his place with the customary post-breakup box the apartment was spotless and the lady next door told her Walsh had left two weeks before – and good riddance, Emma thought to herself. She threw the box in the trash feeling strangely light, climbing the stairs up to her door two at the time because she was too lazy to go to the gym, and seven floors was on hell of an awesome workout when she wasn't wearing heels.

"Emma Swan," the voice halted her on the landing halfway to her door, sounding smug and way to self-satisfied and yet somehow almost reverent – the way someone would say, Jesus or cheesecake or one million dollars.

She turned and surely enough there he was – still looking insanely hot, all tight pants and scruff and blue eyes, the stranger she'd done her best to forget.

"What?"

"That's your name," he said, matter-of-factly. "I have to admit, it's lovely."

Emma didn't ask how he'd known, because her name was on the plaque next to the building's intercom, and almost rolled her eyes at that – but she couldn't contain the smile tugging at her lips, because that was new, and lovely had always been one of her favourite words.

She didn't ask how he'd known her name, but he told her anyway, something about Henry's pathological need to know everything and everyone – even strange new neighbors he knew nothing about.

"Oh, don't be mad at him, Swan," he laughed. "He's a bright child."

Emma scoffed. "That's for sure." And then she felt a flash of – something; but it was gone as soon as it'd started.

"What did you just call me?" she asked, and did her voice really sound so... breathless?"

"Swan," he repeated, looking more pleased than any man had right to be. "I told you, it's lovely. It's almost –"

"Please don't say what I think you're going to say," Emma cut in, incredulous. Who even said that, outside of romance novels and sappy movies? "Seriously, don't."

"I was going to say, it's almost time for me to head out," Jones grinned, and Emma found herself blushing furiously, even though he was lying, and she knew it. "But if you'd rather me to stay, love, you only have to say it."

She did give him an eye roll this time, because seriously, and he brought one hand to his chest in a melodramatic sigh. "No? Then I guess it shall be for another time."

"I'll be waiting for you, Swan," he called out as he left; and she didn't know how true that was.

That was the night she first dreamed of him, of stolen kisses that tasted of despair, of hot humid air clinging to her hair and wind twirling around them and, you know, you never forget your first.

And the next time they met Emma felt as if his eyes were staring right into her soul, and she went to sleep with her cheeks wet with tears and a hole in her chest she could not explain.

The first time Emma Swan went on a date with Killian Jones was almost May, a calm, quiet evening of gentle breeze and purple skies. He took her to a small, run-down place that made the best grilled cheese Emma had ever tasted, and then they just walked around aimlessly, joking and talking and making up stories for the people they met on the streets.

"That woman over there," Emma decided. "Is a pianist. I mean, look at that blouse. She's married, obviously, but I'm sure she's sleeping with one of her piano students on the side."

"Alright," he nodded. "How about that man with the green shirt?"

"Math teacher," she said, flatly. "Duh, Jones. He clearly looks like he enjoys torturing children."

"Fair enough." His hold on her hand tightened and she squeezed back, content. It was.. nice, Emma decided, nicer than pretty much everything she could remember in forever. Going on holiday with Henry in Florida three years ago had been nice, but stressing as hell. Dating Walsh had been nice, too, but she'd always felt pressured, somehow, in being the perfect girlfriend she knew she could never be, because he was such a nice man, and would run away soon enough if she didn't act like he'd expected – and then she'd been the one to run away, and now she was good, and life was almost perfect.

She kissed him then, only a light touch at first, experimentally, a soft brush of lips against lips, closing her eyes to capture every brief moment; and then his hand were on her, against the small of her back, one hand cradling her head, fingers tangled in her hair as he leaned in closer, his mouth trailing feathery touches against her cheeks and forehead until he found her lips again, and she heard him whisper something that could've been her name, the way a man dying of thirst would call for water in the middle of a desert.

And, for a moment, there was no one in the world but the two of them.

Once it was all over – all too soon, some corner of Emma's mind muttered, disappointed – she opened her eyes and found himself face to face with a content smile and an expectant look. He looked like a puppy anticipating a treat, she decided, amused, and also downright adorable. "What?" Emma laughed.

His face fell, for a moment, but it was all over so quickly that she wondered if she'd imagined. "Nothing," he said. "Nothing at all."

***

But it was clear that there was something; if only Emma had known what. Had the circumstances been any different, she would have blamed herself, wondering what she was doing wrong, if she'd managed to drive away yet another person; but it was clear this could never be the case with Jones. Even Emma had to acknowledge that he wasn't likely to be driven away by anything she did – not now, or ever; and the resulting feeling was so intense, it almost scared her. It wasn't anything he said, or did – the man wasn't clingy, didn't expect anything more than she was ready to give.

It was the way he seemed to know her so well, with the uncanny understanding that came from focus and attention, and the simple idea of having someone so interested in her – it was unlike anything else she'd felt before. He remembered to remember each and every one of her favorite movies, and exactly how much ham she put in her omelets, and looked at her like she was the sun in the sky, with such adoration; and she'd never felt more powerful in her life.

(When I win your heart, Emma… she remembered, words coming from nowhere.)

And yet… he looked like he was waiting for something to happen, remembering Emma of herself when she'd been younger, after Neal – when she lived on the edge of a panic attack expecting that CPS would show up at her door to take Henry way from her, and everything would go wrong. She'd been desperate back then; and that was how Killian looked, day after day, even as he held her hand under the table or showed Henry how to solve some particularly nasty equation. "It's not that hard, lad, see?" he would say, and give out a grin, looking the whole time like a castaway drowning at sea.

They'd been dating almost three whole months the first time she invited him to stay the night, because he persisted in treating her like she was some sort of holy relic made of glass, and sometimes a girl had to take initiative – and she knew he wanted her, it would've been obvious even to a blind man, and yet.

And yet he couldn't hide the flash of nervousness in his eyes, the one Emma assumed had to have something to do with the incident he'd lost his hand in, the one he never talked about –

and yet there was something missing, even as he traced the contours of her body with lips and fingers and tongue, and kissed her eyelids and her neck and chest and murmured her name like a prayer, and even as she came with a shudder and a strangled cry – she couldn't shake the feeling that something was horribly, terribly wrong.

He wasn't there when she woke up in the morning, but Emma could hear him moving around in the kitchen, and if she kept her eyes closed and she could pretend that everything was fine.

"I made you breakfast," Killian told her when she made it into the kitchen, and Emma had to suppress a smile at the sight because she had Henry had spent weeks trying to teach him how to use an electric stove, but the end result had been so worth it.

"Here," he added, holding out a mug and studying her intently – and whatever he must have seen was exactly what he'd expected, because his resigned smile didn't quite reach his eyes. He kissed her when she leaned in, deep and desperate, as if she were about to slip away from one moment to the next.

"I –" Emma started, but she hadn't said I love you to anyone except Henry in more than a decade, and she wasn't quite sure they were there yet. "Thanks," she concluded instead, as lame as it was, trying to convey all the gratitude and the affection she felt into the world. "Thank you so much."

"For breakfast?" he raised an eyebrow, flashing her an empty grin. "You're welcome."

**

"If anything was wrong," Emma asked him out of the blue one day. "You'd tell me, right?"

"Nothing is wrong," he said. Lie, lie, lie. It was so clear that something was – but Emma had no basis for comparison, not really. She had known Killian for less than two months before they started dating, but he'd seemed… more hopeful, somewhat. Anticipating something that never came.

Maybe's the incident. She had no idea of the person Killian Jones had been before he'd moved to New York without a hand and with what he'd defined a generous settlement. He hadn't shared much about his past, and it was fine because neither had Emma; but it was clear that whatever plagued him had to be more recent than the ghost of Neal was. He'd told her bit and pieces about fighting in the Navy and a dead brother, but nothing more than that, and she hadn't pried. But he hadn't been so bad, in the beginning.

Maybe it's us, she thought – and when had she become the stable part of the relationship?

Or in any relationship at all, really. Emma Swan, in a relationship. When had that happened? Not with Walsh, surely; she hadn't really been able to imagine a future with him. To imagine a future without Killian, though –

She'd stopped keeping counts of the months at six but he still did, bringing her funnily-shaped cupcakes every month and bouquets of bright colored flowers (roses are boring, she'd said; and he'd agreed), and Emma found herself wondering if he would keep that up even after they'd passed the one year mark, and the thought made her strangely giddy – more than she could remember feeling in too long.

They were almost there (eleven months, but she wasn't counting, she really wasn't) the night Henry proposed a movie night, like he'd been doing for months since he'd found out that Killian had neither cable television nor a DVD player, not to mention a computer, and they all ended up watching The Princess Bride.

"Ah, so this is it." Killian said the moment the movie began, with a laugh that was almost a snort, and Emma felt oddly left out, as if it was some kind of in-joke she was supposed to get – but didn't.

"What is it?" she asked, and Killian only laughed louder, whatever melancholy always surrounded him completely forgotten as he slung one arm across her waist and laid his head on her shoulder, breath barely brushing her ear.

"Someone told me I should watch this," he explained. "I never really got a chance."

That night they fell asleep on the couch, shoulder against shoulder, and Emma dreamed that she was a princess and Killian the pirate who loved her from a distance but never would admit to it because –

there was more to it, Emma knew; but dawn broke and when she woke up the dream was gone.

On their one year anniversary (not that she was the one keeping count; only Killian did that) Emma had cleared her schedule, booked an appointment with her hairdresser, and made a dinner reservation somewhere nice – nowhere like the place she'd gone on her last, disastrous date with Walsh, thankyouverymuch. There was no bail-skipper to catch, not today – the only thing she had to do was to make Henry lunch and send him off to his friend's house, wait for Killian to show up from whatever odd job he was doing, put together some pretty outfit and enjoy the day.

But when she got home in the early afternoon her considerate, punctual, perfect boyfriend was nowhere to be seen.

"Hey, Henry," she asked, matter-of-factly. There was nothing wrong; there couldn't be. Not now, not when everything had been going so well. Not again. "Do you know where Killian is?"

Henry gave her A Look – for all that Emma loved the kid, loved how smart and wonderful he was, sometimes he was way to perceptive for his own good. "At his place," he said, "I… I don't think he's feeling too well."

Not too well, Emma decided, had to be the understatement of the century.

She found Killian in his barely-used bedroom in the barren apartment they spent so little time in, pausing to look at the walls and the empty shelves, noticing for the first time how everything looked just as he had when he'd first arrived. Killian had moved in with two bags and noting more, just as Emma and Henry had when they'd arrived in town from Boston, but their place had never felt this… cold.

"Killian," she called out. "Are you alright?"

In the darkness, she could make up his form laid out on the bed, laying on his back, arms crossed behind his neck. "Just wonderful, love," he said, and Emma almost recoiled at the sheer loathing in his voice. "Never been better."

He sounded sour and harsh; more than anything, he sounded drunk.

That by itself was worrying; the stupid man could hold his alcohol better than anyone Emma had ever met. Whatever had happened, it had to be deliberate.

"Killian, was is it?" She found the bed, fumbling in the dark, and let herself fall down next to him. His hand was cold when she found it, and he winced at the contact.

"Don't touch me," he said. "Please."

She ignored him. "What have you done to yourself?"

He laughed a bitter laugh. "What does it look like, Swan? I'm being miserable."

God, she thought, it was a wonder she'd never had to deal with this side of Killian before. He was worse than Henry had been at five, the time he'd had a crying fit at school because…. Because…

What had happened to Henry when he'd been five? She couldn't remember.

She couldn't remember, and could feel an headache coming up. Right – better to focus on other things; namely, the problem at hand.

"Did anything happen?" she asked, the traitorous thoughts once again making way through her mind. "Is… is it my fault? Did I do anything wrong?"

"Oh, Swan," he whispered, longingly, bringing that cold hand up to cup her face. "Love, you could never do anything wrong."

"Then –" what is it, she wanted to ask; but he stopped her before she could, trailing his fingers on her cheek, tracing her mouth.

"I love you," he whispered against her mouth, as if it was some terrible secret. "I love you so much, you know. So much it hurts."

And what could she say to that? Emma had never been the greatest at showing feelings – and he knew it; and that was why he'd held his own declaration for so long.

"But you know that, do you?" he sounded broken. "And nothing happened, Emma, and I've got everything I've always wanted, but I hoped…"

"What?" she asked, moving in closer, wishing they could stay like that forever. Everything I've ever wanted – how many years had she spent wishing she could find someone who would put her first? You're everything I've ever wanted, too; she wanted to say, but she couldn't. "What did you hope?"

"Doesn't matter," he said. "I've got you, now, don't I?"

"Yes," she whispered back, hoping she could feel the fervor in her voice as she'd had in his. "Yes, you've got me."

"Wonderful," she felt him nod, and this time it sounded like he actually meant it. "Are we still going to that place tonight?"

She smiled. "I don't know, are we? You tell me."

"Aye," he said. "Just… I need to sleep some, first."

"That's fine." Emma moved in closer, swinging one leg across his, wrapping one arm around his shoulders. "I'll stay here with you."

They remained like that for hours, wrapped in silence and shadows as the day outside turned to dusk. Emma found herself dozing, too, fluttering in and out of consciousness, dreaming of faraway places she'd never seen before and great adventures she'd never had – and Killian; Killian was in all of them.

She woke up sometime in the late afternoon, sunset tracing strips of golden light through the shutters, one thin sliver going across Killian's face, through his cheek and lips and neck, capturing her gaze like a magnet. He was beautiful, Emma noticed, not for the first time; not in a pure aesthetical way, but in the way people become to the eyes of those who love them, when every feature is absolute beauty and every tiny flaw becomes perfection.

In the eyes of those who love them. Did she love him? Emma had no idea. Did she even remember what love was, how it felt like, after so long? There was no ache when they were apart, no butterflies in her stomach when they talked, no intense need to do everything together like every self-respecting romantic comedy taught… but she felt better when she was with him, powerful and safe and loved, and could no longer imagine how life would be without Killian's steady presence right behind her, without his dry jokes and funny quirks and the way he smiled at her whenever they eyes met.

_So, maybe I do. Maybe._

There was no Earth-shattering revelation at that; the sky didn't open and life continued as normal – in fact, Killian didn't even wake up. But she knew it now, finally at peace with herself; and it was good.

You're everything I've ever wanted, he'd told her, and Emma felt herself well with emotion at the memory. That someone could feel something so – absolute, for her…

"Hey," she found herself whispering against Killian's ear, shaking him awake, snuggling in closer against her chest. It didn't feel right, somehow, that he was asleep while she was having such… life-altering realization. "Wake up."

He did, eventually; smiling in that way he always did whenever her face was the first thing he woke up to. He raised one eyebrow at her obvious glee, all the previous gloom forgotten. "Good morning," he said.

"Afternoon," Emma corrected. "Well, evening. I've got to tell you something."

He was still half-asleep, she could see it; but nevertheless amused at her enthusiasm. "What is it?" he asked.

"You," she said, trying so desperately to infuse her voice with everything she felt, to make him understand her emotion as he had her. "You, Jones, are the best thing that ever happened to me."

And then she kissed him.

And then, only then, she remembered.

It didn't hurt, not quite, but it was… unpleasant, like if a wall had broken somewhere in her mind – a dam, and now she was swimming in memories. Hers, not hers, things that happened and things that had been changed and dreams that had been memories all along. Emma hissed, bringing one hand to her head, feeling as if the whole world were spinning.

The whole world; but she was safe, nested in the warm bed that smelled like him and –

and I'm in love with Hook, she thought to herself; because that was what it had to be, true love with a capital T and a capital L, the kind of fairy tale love that breaks curses and wakes up sleeping princesses.

(when I win your heart, Emma; and I will win it…)

(and he'd been right, the smug, handsome bastard)

"Emma," he was calling her, shaking her shoulder, sounding more worried than she'd ever heard him. "Emma, love, what is it?"

My life is a lie. But, oh, what a beautiful lie it had been, in no small part thanks to the man lying next to her.

But…. The portals were closed, she remembered. If the portals were closed, just how is he here? And why, Emma thought, remembering the desperate sense of urgency she'd gotten from him earlier. He'd needed her to remember, not because – not only because he… loved her. But because there was something going on.

That's great, she thought, groaning to herself.

"Emma," she heard him repeat once again, "you're scaring me."

"Wait," Emma whispered, eyes still closed. "I'm remembering."

It took barely a moment for the meaning to sink in; she felt him stiffen against her, the warm embrace turning into an awkward lock.

"Right," he said, with that self-deprecating tone that was so Hook, the one she hadn't heard in so long, the one that said that he knew he wasn't good enough and he didn't need anyone else to point it out to him. "Better late than never, I suppose," he made to move away, but Emma stopped him, grasping his good arm with one hand.

"Don't be an idiot," she told him, eyes snapping open. "Stay."

"Really?" he asked – and it was overwhelming just what she could hear in his voice, affection and disbelief and hope and –

"Yes, really," she found herself smiling at him and he smiled back, still incredulous, and how on earth hadn't she remembered anything before? "We're supposed to go out, remember?" she reminded him. "And I got an haircut especially for today, even though I'm pretty sure it's ruined now." She kept talking like nothing was wrong, trying to navigate the mess that were her memories. Henry; she'd given Henry away when she could've kept him – but she couldn't have, could she? There was no way she'd gotten him back after Phoenix if Regina's memories had been realistic… right?

Or maybe there was, and giving Henry away had been her greatest mistake, if only she'd been stronger –

"It's not," she heard Killian say, as if from far away.

"What?"

"Ruined," he said, as if he was reading her mind. "The haircut, and everything else. Nothing is ruined, love, it's just…."

"Messed up?" she asked, meeting his eyes, giving out a sigh. Oh, Henry…

"Messed up," he agreed; and that was when it her, the modern words sounding so out of place in his mouth – except they weren't, weren't they? She'd heard him talk like that for more than one year.

"Wait," Emma had to laugh, sitting up on the bed. "Wait. You've been living in New York fourteen months, acting all… modern, and no one figured it out?"

He looked up at her, a smirk on his lips. "I'll have you know, Swan, I'm quite proficient at… adapting, when the situation calls for it." Oh, of that she had no doubt. "And it turns out, gold is worth as much here as it does in the Enchanted Forest."

"You know," Emma began, casually. "You could really have used all this attitude earlier. You know, when you were a drunk mess."

She let herself fall down on the bed again, her lips finding his like they had so many times before – but this time, this time it was different; it was all of her, and all of him.

"I love you," she said, tasting the words on her tongue. She liked how they sounded. "I was about to tell you earlier, when… you know," she made a vague gesture toward her head. "But I love you. Really."

He didn't answer, just looked at her; really looked at her, with such intensity Emma almost had took away – almost, but not quite – and then he took her hand, squeezing lightly. "I missed you," he said, eventually, playing with a lock of her hair, tucking it behind her ear. "This you. Perhaps it's selfish but –"

"No, it's not," Emma cut him off. It really wasn't. Lost girl Emma, who'd gone off the deep end and came back whole, was better than happy Emma with her fake plastic memories, and nice and comfortable as they could be. "I missed you too," she thought back to her dreams, how they'd never really made sense until now. "Even when you were sleeping right next to me, I missed you and didn't know what I was looking for."

But now they'd found each other, finally; and, whatever may come, Emma knew they'd be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://www.qvcksilver.tumblr.com/).


End file.
